


And I miss you (and I think that you miss me too)

by MemeKonHQ (MemeKonYA)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Accidents, Feels, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 10:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13611024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemeKonYA/pseuds/MemeKonHQ
Summary: He’s probably slept an hour at most when his phone wakes him the next morning, earlier than he knows he sets his alarm by the way the sky looks through the bedroom’s window with its curtains partially drawn.He picks the ringing phone clumsily, and half expects it to be Oikawa, not giving a shit that Hajime was probably sleeping, ready to tease him to hell and back for blowing up his phone with texts and to tell him about his classes and his new team and whatever inane shit is going through his head; he half expects it, and isn’t as mad as he should. Isn’t mad at all.But then he sees the contact name, and frowns.He sits up, then, and takes the call.“Auntie?”





	And I miss you (and I think that you miss me too)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a really belated Secret Santa gift for athousandblueshells, for the Haikyuu!! Secret Santa 2017. I'm sorry it took me this long to post this, but I hope you still enjoy it.

Three days.

It’s been three days. And— and it’s not like Hajime is counting. It’s not like it’s part of his routine to wake up to one of Oikawa’s inane texts, or like he expects to see him all the time, or like they have set times for calls. That’s the kind of shit Oikawa does with his girlfriends.

It’s just— weird. It’s been weird, is all. It’s been weird to adjust to seeing each other less and less after graduation, as they got ready for entrance exams, and then even less when they actually started attending college— separately. 

It’s been— it’s been a lot to adjust to. It’s just that. It’s just that Hajime has gotten used to Oikawa invading every single corner of his life, to him always being there, ever since they were kids doing dumb stuff and getting scolded for getting caught doing dumb stuff. 

It’s just that.

It’s not that he misses Oikawa like crazy.

Or that he’s worried out of his mind.

It’s just— habit. It’s just that Oikawa has been part of his life for longer than he hasn’t, and it’s— it’s weird. For him to not be right next to him, saying weird shit, annoying the fuck out of him, planning to take over the world, forgetting to eat lunch. All at once.

He frowns down at his phone, and it stays silent, screen black.

Yeah, it’s just— all that. That’s it.

 

He shoots Oikawa a text before heading to bed that night.

_You better be sleeping, you asshole._

Oikawa doesn’t text back.

 

“Shithead,” he grumbles in annoyance as he thumbs through his phone, the next day, consciously avoiding his contact list. He won’t give Oikawa the satisfaction, fuck him.

“What?” The guy who’s sitting next to him asks, looking up from the doodles he’s been drawing on the margins of his notes for the past ten minutes or so, looking a little startled.

Hajime just shakes his head at him, says _nothing, sorry_ , and pockets his phone when the professor walks through the door.

 

After he’s done with his lecture he ends up giving in, thumbing Oikawa’s contact and sending another text.

_If you’re doing stupid shit I’ll find out and kick your ass._

 

That night when he’s lying in his bed, frowning up at his ceiling as he fails to fall asleep, he lets the truth settle in his bones, heavy and a little uncomfortable, making him restless and antsy and annoyed.

He’s worried. He’s worried sick. He hasn’t heard from Oikawa in four days and they have never gone this long without talking to each other in the whole time they’ve been friends; even when they’ve gotten in fights in the past, they’ve always been too stubborn to let the other one have the last word, and too used to each other to stay mad for too long. 

He closes his eyes and covers them with his hands.

He scowls, and turns towards his bedside table, grabbing his phone.

He drafts and redrafts a text a couple of times, until finally he just touches the lit-up screen to his forehead and exhales deeply.

He deletes his prior draft, composes a new text, and sends it. Then he leaves the phone back on his table and turns his back to it, telling himself that he won’t wait up for a reply— even though he already knows he probably will.

_Hey, are you okay?_

 

He’s probably slept an hour at most when his phone wakes him the next morning, earlier than he knows he sets his alarm by the way the sky looks through the bedroom’s window with its curtains partially drawn.

He picks the ringing phone clumsily, and half expects it to be Oikawa, not giving a shit that Hajime was probably sleeping, ready to tease him to hell and back for blowing up his phone with texts and to tell him about his classes and his new team and whatever inane shit is going through his head; he half expects it, and isn’t as mad as he should. Isn’t mad at all. 

But then he sees the contact name, and frowns.

He sits up, then, and takes the call. 

“Auntie?” 

There are a couple of seconds in the other side of the line, and Hajime thinks of about a thousand things in that short span of time, a lot of them gruesome and improbable and— and maybe Oikawa’s mom dialed his number on accident, okay? Maybe that’s it. Maybe she’ll realize and be contrite and invite him over for dinner whenever he’s back home.

Only it doesn’t work out like that.

“Hajime,” she says, finally, and his heart plummets all the way down to his stomach, with the speed of a collapsing building at the way she sounds— fragile and tired and nothing at all like the woman he thinks of as a second mother. She takes a shaky breath before she continues, and Hajime’s other hand forms a tight fist around his blanket, “it’s Tooru.”

 

The next thing he knows he’s at the hospital’s front desk, panting, frantic. He doesn’t know how he manages to ask the woman there for directions to the ER, doesn’t know how he manages to tell whatever details she asks for, and how he manages to be sent in the OR’s direction instead, doesn’t really know that he speaks at all— he just knows that his feet take him towards a waiting room where a couple of people are crumpled in on themselves in uncomfortable-looking chairs, and there’s a man pacing the hall that he recognizes instantly as Oikawa’s dad, and then his eyes are scanning the few faces in the small crowd until he’s lunging himself at the small-looking figure of Oikawa’s mom.

 _When did I outgrow her?_ he thinks as he drops into his knees in front of her chair and lets her envelop him in her arms, as her arms are barely able to cover the expanse of his back, as his head is still almost level with hers.

 _Probably at the same time I outgrew calling Oikawa_ Tooru, he thinks as he sinks into her embrace, something heavy in him that even the comfortable smell of her hair and the softness of her hands can’t get rid of.

 

A car accident. 

A drunk driver, a moment of slow reaction on Oikawa’s part, a collision.

Fractured ribs, a punctured lung, a head wound, bruises and cuts.

Hajime sits there, listening to Oikawa’s mom, feeling too bulky for the chair, feeling too agitated and yet too numb, and completely out of place within the white walls of the hospital.

 _A drunk driver._ Of all things, after everything Hajime has worried about, nagged about— 

“—jime?”

He’s startled out of his thoughts by Oikawa’s mom’s soft voice. She has a hand on his knee, pale and slim. Hajime knows that hand, was practically raised by that hand, as much as Oikawa has been raised by his mom’s hands— 

“Does mom—?”

“Yes,” she interrupts, because that’s where Oikawa gets it, a little bit. “I called her as soon as I hung up on you. She’s working right now, and can’t leave. But she’ll pick you up after her shift is over.”

“I’m staying,” he says, voice a little hollow, and his tone brooks no argument.

“Hajime,” she says, so soft, so loving, “he’s— he’s going to be okay. He’s going through surgery but his doctors were optimistic and— you shouldn’t stay. You should come back tomorrow, when he’s woken up.”

“I’m staying,” he repeats, stubborn.

She sighs, but she also squeezes his knee and gives him a soft, loving smile that tells him she knew that from the beginning, because she knows him just like she knows Oikawa, just like any mom knows their children, like the back of her hand.

He puts his own, trembling hand, on top of hers, and even though he’s the one covering up the expanse of her deceptively dainty hand with his bigger one, it still feels like she’s the one holding him, close and tight and secure.

 

The surgery goes well. 

Of course it does. The doctors had said it would.

And it just— it had to. It had to go well. Hajime can’t bear to think about any other possibility, can’t let himself imagine any other outcome, can’t picture losing— 

A hand squeezes his shoulder.

It’s Oikawa’s dad. He’s smiling at him, eyes tired and face pale.

He’s a quiet man. Much quieter than auntie is, almost like they balance each other that way, her exuberance and his calm attitude. 

Hajime had often made fun of Oikawa for how little he resembled his dad’s peaceful nature, telling him it’d do him some good to try and learn from him and maybe not lose his shit at the drop of a hat for the smallest fucking stuff.

And now he’d kill for Oikawa’s loudness. There’s nothing he wants more right now than to see Oikawa kicking up a fuss for inane shit that he’ll forget about in a couple of hours, or making a scene just because he can, or flirt with all the nurses to get in their good side, he wants— 

“It’s okay,” Oikawa’s dad tells him, with a firm squeeze. “it’s all okay, Hajime. He’s fine.”

—he wants Oikawa to be fine.

 _And he is_ , he reminds himself, _he is_ ; he nods at Oikawa’s dad, and he repeats those words in his own head as a mantra. 

_He is fine, he is fine, he is fine._

It should make him feel a surge of relief, it should be enough to uncoil the ball of dread inside of his stomach, to unravel the knot of anguish at the base of his throat, but it’s— somehow it’s just not enough. Not _enough_.

“Can I see him?” He asks, and doesn’t realize how loud he’s speaking until the words are out, like a gunshot in the relative quiet of the waiting room. 

Everyone in the waiting room turns to look at him as he stands up on shaky legs that barely support him. He lifts his chin, tries to breathe deep, evenly, tries to project calm. 

“He’s going to be in the post-anesthesia care unit for a little while,” a lady in scrubs tells him, her voice sympathetic but firm, “and we only allow only one visitor, ideally a family member. And after that, once he’s moved to a recovery room, he’ll be— well, he’ll probably still be a little lost. You could—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupts, and he hears his mother’s voice in his head, reproachful and scandalized at him for being this rude, reminding him that he’s been raised to be a respectful boy with _manners_ , but he doesn’t care right now. “I need— I want to see him. As soon as I can. Please.”

The lady— doctor? nurse? sighs then, and looks at Oikawa’s parents, who nod at her in unison, and then sighs once more.

“Fine,” she says, “just— don’t agitate him. He needs rest.” She eyes him critically after saying this, from head to the tip of his toes. “And so do you.”

She walks away then, and after a hushed conversation between Oikawa’s parents, Oikawa’s dad follows her.

Hajime sits back down, and auntie comes to sit next to him. She hooks an arm around one of his, and pats his shoulder affectionately with her free hand.

Hajime doesn’t realize he’s crying until she offers him her handkerchief (one of the same ones she’s had for years, the same she offered him when he was six and he’d gotten into a fight with Oikawa— with _Tooru,_ over some toy— worn and soft, with little white flowers over blue fabric).

He takes it with trembling hands, but just crumples it in a fist, and lets out a sob.

Auntie doesn’t say anything at all, doesn’t sob along with him, but he feels her faint tremors through their linked arms.

And like that, they wait. 

 

Oikawa is completely out of it when he finally gets to see him, a couple of hours later. His mother goes first, and he gives her privacy, waits outside as patiently as he can, leg bouncing up and down as his eyes remain fixed on the closed door.

When Oikawa’s mom finally steps out (with eyes a little red and puffy, and a wan but relieved smile), he’s up in a second, almost knocking the chair down in his haste, and he’s inside the room as soon as he gets Oikawa’s mom’s nod of approval.

Oikawa is awake, at the other side of the door. Awake and completely out of it.

He has glossy, lost eyes on him, and he blinks a couple of times at him when he walks slowly up to him and sits on the chair placed next to his bed, and there’s something in the dip between his eyebrows that reminds Hajime of when they were children and Oikawa had more questions than anyone else he’d ever known.

He looks— he looks exactly like Hajime would expect someone to look like after having been hit by a car. There’s gauze covering most of his forehead, cuts all over his face, a split lip; one of his hands is connected to an IV and to some other device, some minor scrapes over his knuckles, and the other one is bruised to hell and back, almost the entire back of it black and blue, the bruising going up his wrist. 

It’s not what he can see that makes him anxious, though. It’s what lays under the flimsy gown that has his heart beating oddly, too fast, too painful. 

Oikawa keeps blinking at him as he looks him over, sleepily, as though he’s not quite awake. 

Hajime holds his gaze for a couple of seconds, and Oikawa tries to move his free hand and gives up when it proves too difficult. 

“Go back to sleep,” Hajime tells him then, voice raspy. 

Oikawa blinks at him a couple of times more, and then he’s out like a light.

Hajime stays there, watching him doze, until his own mom is there, and he gets bullied into going home to get some sleep.

 

It takes Oikawa a couple of days to be back to himself, and Hajime is there every step of the way. His mom has given up on trying to make him stick to visiting hours, and Oikawa’s mom has used her charms to bribe the nurses into letting him stay when he shouldn’t, and Hajime takes advantage of it all.

He’s there for Oikawa’s grogginess, for the weird little conversations, for the non-sequiturs, and for that one time he kind of forgets who Hajime is. Although he’s sure Oikawa was faking it to make fun of him.

(“Are you sure we’re friends?” He’d half asked, half drawled, eyes roaming all over him as far as he could from his position in the bed. “You’re a lot to forget.”

“Yeah, you asshole, I’m sure.”

“ _And_ you’re charming too,” he’d said, with a lopsided smile that had made Hajime feel instantly better than he had in these past few days.)

And he’s there for the times Oikawa hisses through his teeth, in pain, before the nurses adjust his pain medication. And for the times when he’s just— just there, staring at his bruised hands, stuck inside his own head in that way he sometimes gets, leaving Hajime out.

“Stop thinking stupid shit,” he tells him one of those times, because it makes him itchy to watch him do that to himself for too long. “There was— there was nothing you could do to avoid that fucker.”

Oikawa hums at him in reply, almost like he’s humming a song only he knows, and then he closes his eyes and lies back on his pillows.

Hajime frowns.

“Oikawa, I mean—”

“I know,” Oikawa tells him, serious. “I know, but— I hadn’t slept the night before, I’d been watching tape for a game, and I— maybe if I—”

“Shut up,” Hajime interrupts him. “You’re not fucking Superman. And yeah, you are fucking shit at taking care of yourself and someone should kick some fucking sense into you before one day you just keel over or something— but this is not your fault, okay? It’s not. So shut up.”

Hajime opens up his eyes and turns his head to look at him then, and there’s something in his gaze that is heavy and charged. After a few seconds, however, he just grins. 

“Aw, Iwa-chan, sounds like you were worried about me.”

Hajime’s frown deepens, and somehow the dam just opens.

“Yes, you fucking dipshit, of course I was. Are you fucking with me? I get nothing but radio silence from you for like a fucking week and then I get auntie calling me to tell me you’re in the fucking ER, you— of course I was worried. I was worried fucking sick, you asshole.”

“Has anyone ever told you you have a potty mouth when you’re mad?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Oikawa mimes zipping his mouth, then, with the hand that is only just a little banged up, and Hajime deflates. He can’t muster any more anger when faced with Oikawa like that, bruised and banged up, connected to at least one weird machine, looking more tired than he’s ever seen him before.

There’s only worry, only that niggling need to make sure Oikawa is okay now, to _make_ him okay.

But there’s nothing he can do, here, and it might be driving him a little insane.

His face must be giving something away, because Oikawa grows serious again, his eyes losing the playful glint they’d gained, mouth forming a tight line in his face (his bruised, patched up, swollen face). He lifts himself up into a seating position, with some effort (and Hajime tries not to flinch at that).

“I’m sorry,” he says after a couple of tense seconds, voice barely rising above a whisper.

“I already told you it’s not your fault you got hit by a drunkard behind the wheel,” he spits out, knowing that he’s being harsh to him for no good reason.

“Not for that, you _dummy_ ,” he retorts, words gaining at least a bit of his customary edge (and he’s pathetically glad to hear that, to finally get to witness him being a little shit again). “I’m sorry for shutting you out.”

“Ah.”

He’d known Oikawa was deliberately ignoring him, is the thing; he’d known that, deep down, because Oikawa has always been a serial texter, ever since he got his first crappy phone, and he’d always replied to his texts, unless he was watching tape or practising on his own— and even then, he’d always reach out as soon as he was done, littering his replies with a crapton of emojis.

So he’d known, yeah. But it was something else entirely to have it confirmed by Oikawa himself, to hear it from his lips.

“Yeah,” Oikawa says, lying back down on his pillows.

He sighs and looks towards the window, unable to repress a grimace.

Hajime’s hands clench and unclench, and he swallows his impotence— kind of like he used to swallow green peppers without chewing them as a kid, laboriously, face wanting to display his disgust.

“Your face will get stuck like that and then you’ll never get a girlfriend,” Oikawa sing-songs when he looks back at him, but the delivery on his jab is too soft.

“I don’t want a girlfriend, anyway,” he grumbles. 

Oikawa’s eyes widen a little at that, for a couple of seconds, surprised. Hajime’s never taken the bait before. 

He feels a childish sense of pride at having gotten that reaction out of him, and lets it bleed through with a little self-satisfied smile.

It fades after a second or two.

“Did I do something?” He asks, then. “Are you mad at me?”

“What? No,” Oikawa replies, comically scandalized. 

_It hasn’t been that long since you last saw him like this_ , his brain supplies when he starts feeling all tingly and weird about his antics, all happy and affectionate, and still so fucking relieved.

“Do we really need to talk about this?” Oikawa asks, almost in a whine. “I pinky promise to check in regularly and be a good boy from now on.”

“You haven’t been a good boy a day in your life,” he says, after letting out a loud snort.

His heart’s beating loudly enough inside his chest to make him the slightest bit queasy, for some reason, but he tries to ignore it.

“How dare you, Iwa-chan, my mom will have words with you about telling lies.”

“Auntie will agree with me and you know it.”

“Rude.”

“Why don’t you want to talk about this?” He asks, before the moment passes.

Oikawa groans.

“Tell me,” he probes, and he might be making his voice and his eyes soften, because they both know each other too well, and sometimes Hajime isn’t above playing Oikawa like a fiddle, if it’s what will get him what he wants.

They are rather similar, that way.

Oikawa closes his eyes and sighs.

“ _Tooru_ ,” he says, then.

Oikawa’s eyes open immediately, and his cheeks go deep red in a second.

“Augh, you are so not cute,” Oikawa tells him, aiming for haughty and landing somewhere near desperate. “So not cute.”

“Well, I guess you’re cute enough for the both of us,” he says to that, shrugging nonchalantly.

“And people think _you_ are the nice one,” Oikawa mutters, cheeks still flushed.

“And they are right, you are a raging asshole.”

“A _cute_ asshole, apparently.”

Iwaizumi hums in agreement, but keeps his eyes locked on Oikawa’s own, refusing to give an inch, to let Oikawa change topics.

“Okay, okay, you win.” He runs his hand through his hair, careful of the gauze pads on his forehead. 

He suddenly looks... vulnerable, miserable, and Hajime almost wants to take it all back for a second there, to just accept Oikawa’s assurance that he won’t do this again.

“I missed you,” Oikawa admits, finally, avoiding his gaze. He sounds sullen, and maybe a little embarrassed.

Hajime’s heart fucking clenches uncomfortably, and the back of his throat _burns_.

“Okay?” _I missed you too_ , he doesn’t say, _it was the worst to have you act like I didn’t fucking exist._ “What’s wrong with that?” 

“You don’t get it,” he says then, and there’s frustration seeping into his voice, “it’s not— it’s not like ‘oh, I miss Iwa-chan, I’m gonna text him a picture of these soul-killing booklets’, or like ‘oh, I’m gonna text Iwa-chan so we can skype this weekend and I can tell him about my new team’.”

Iwaizumi frowns, but his heart starts beating even louder, almost a cacophony.

“What was it like?” He asks.

Oikawa’s expression goes a little manic, and he raises his hands in front of his face and moves them around some, before he just lets them fall back into his lap.

“It’s like— It’s like I miss you and I hate that none of my spikers feels like you— it’s like I hear something funny and I turn around because I want to see you laughing and you’re not there, it’s like— it’s like there’s something missing, and I know _exactly_ what it is and it sucks, and—”

“—it’s like you won’t reply to my texts and then my whole day’s off,” he interrupts, “like I worry about whether you’re— eating right, and taking care of your knee, and sleeping a whole eight hours, it’s like I take note when the canteen’s selling milk bread before I realize you’re not there to buy more than you will eat.”

“I’m not a kid,” Oikawa says, petulantly, but his eyes are wide, and they won’t leave his own.

Hajime shrugs.

“I know,” he says.

They both sit in silence, something out there, between us, that has grown over the years until it no longer fits inside of them, and has bled out from both of them, unable to be contained anymore, and now it’s filling up everything, every empty little corner of the room.

“Are you confessing to me, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asks him then, attempting to sound airy, and coming out a little choked instead.

“I thought _you_ were confessing to me,” Hajime retorts, voice raspy, cheeks warm.

Oikawa rolls his eyes, but his cheeks are still red, and the flush goes all the way down his neck, disappearing under his gown.

“Okay, I’ll be the mature one, since you obviously can’t, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime hums, and suddenly his hand is on top of Oikawa’s— the one with the scraped knuckles, and he’s rubbing soft circles over them, feeling the split skin under his thumb. 

Oikawa looks down at their joined hands, and just— laughs. 

And like a bubble bursting, Hajime laughs along.

 

(They kiss, after their laughter has died down.

Hajime takes care to be soft and careful, and he licks at the cut on Oikawa— on _Tooru’s_ bottom lip, with the tip of his tongue, a little soothing, a little horny. 

Tooru hisses, but he also puts a hand to the back of Hajime’s head and pulls him in, kissing him a little deeper, a little dirtier. 

His other hand is still under Hajime’s own, and Hajime is still rubbing uncoordinated little circles over his knuckles.

It’s sweet and hot and a little weird—with all the maneuvering, and the machines, and the flowers and get well cards, and the hospital smell—, and amazing. 

Until they get caught by a nurse, that is. )

**Author's Note:**

> [Come hang out with me!](http://memekon.tumblr.com)


End file.
